


Undone and Alive

by A_Kid_Named_Hiro



Series: MadaTobi Week [8]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 02:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17931083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kid_Named_Hiro/pseuds/A_Kid_Named_Hiro
Summary: Prompt:The Sensei Trap(fromMadaTobi Week 2018).





	Undone and Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _The Sensei Trap_ (from **[MadaTobi Week 2018](https://madatobiweek.tumblr.com/post/174594542851/madatobi-week-2018-prompts)** ).

They meet upon the high school rooftop.

Madara's leaning against the chainlink fence, cigarette dangling between his fingers, ash littered incriminatingly at his feet. He tries to keep the guilt from his voice when he says, "You won't tell, will you?"

Tobirama looks at him, eyebrow ever so slightly arched, smirk working its way across his face. Amusement is evident in the glimpse of his red, red eyes.

He reaches into his jacket and retrieves a silver case. From it, he draws a cigarette. It is black and gold. Madara has never seen one like it.

He watches, entranced, the path of Tobirama's hands. He pulls a lighter — this too, is silver — from the pocket of his dress pants. The slide of the cigarette between his lips. The sound of the lighter flipping open, the hiss as the flame ignites. The rise and fall of Tobirama's chest when he inhales and exhales a cloud of smoke. The image of a dragon breathing fire comes to mind.

The silence seems interminable. Madara feels his own breath shudder in this moment suspended between them.

Tobirama stares at him, something dark in his eyes. His smirk is a dangerous thing. "I can keep a secret," he says.

Madara swallows.

This is how it begins.

  


* * *

  


Or rather, it begins before that.

Madara is lying beneath the sheets upon his narrow bed in his dorm. A hand between his teeth. The other, a tight fist around his cock.

Behind his eyelids, the image of Tobirama. His hungry eyes. His rapacious hands. Roaming all over Madara's body, unchallenged. His hands are broad, warm, callused from training.

Of this, Madara is certain. He has never seen Tobirama train, but _knows_ that he does. Nobody gets a body like that sitting on their ass all day, grading papers.

Those broad shoulders. The solid planes of his chest. The way he fills out his suits. Madara never tires of looking at him. He wants, desperately, to know what Tobirama would look like without clothes on.

He imagines himself splayed upon Tobirama's desk in their classroom. Tobirama's hands upon his thighs, spreading him open. Pushing his knees to his chest. Madara, exposed and vulnerable before him.

The path of Tobirama's gaze from Madara's eyes to his lips, his neck, his chest. Down to his belly, to his cock that rests there, hard and leaking. The curve of his balls. His asshole, twitching, wanting, _needing_ Tobirama.

He pictures Tobirama between his legs, rubbing the head of his cock against his hole. Teasing until Madara is a desperate, mewling mess upon the desk. _"Please,"_ he begs, and his voice is a high, broken thing. "Please fuck me, Senju-sensei!"

And Tobirama does. He slides inside Madara, agonizingly slow. Madara can feel every inch of him. He would be large, like the rest of him is. The stretch is an incredible thing. It burns Madara from the inside out.

Madara's hand tightens around his cock. His rhythm quickens, matching the rhythm of Tobirama's thrusts in his fantasy. The door would be unlocked. Anyone could walk in right now and watch Madara being ruthlessly fucked into his teacher's desk. The very thought of being discovered makes him harder.

Tobirama's hands beneath his knees. He lifts Madara's legs onto his shoulders. His cock hits Madara's prostate with every thrust. Hot breath between them, mingling. Madara feels his balls tighten.

 _"Madara,"_ Tobirama growls, fingers denting his flesh. His voice is rich, feral. It makes Madara hot and cold all at once. Makes him come, hard, clenching and pulsing around Tobirama's large cock.

Tobirama's eyes, blood red, never leaving him.

  


* * *

  


But the truth is this.

Every day, Madara sits in the back of the classroom, watching.

Tobirama's voice. This deep, commanding baritone that washes over him, permeates his skin, sinks into his bones. His gaze, so sharp, so intelligent, so terrifying. Madara wants to sink into the depths of his eyes, drown in them.

The rectangular, black-framed glasses upon the bridge of his nose. Those immaculate suits, so perfectly tailored for his body, he is certain they are custom-made. The dance of his hands when he gestures. His fingers around a book, a pen, Madara's assignment which he places upon his desk.

His hand that travels to Madara's shoulder, briefly, gently squeezing. The heat of that hand through the fabric of his shirt.

Madara feels his breath hitch. Shiver down his spine. Heat, in his cheeks. He hopes Tobirama does not notice.

But of course he does.

Tobirama notices everything.

  


* * *

  


Somedays, Madara plays hooky. Not from school, just from the classes Tobirama doesn't teach.

He waits on the rooftop. Smokes cigarette after cigarette till Tobirama finds him.

He always does. He would sit by Madara's side, back against the chainlink fence. He would smoke his stupidly expensive cigarettes.

He doesn't ask how Madara obtains _his_ cigarettes when he's underage.

Most days, he says nothing.

  


* * *

  


He dreams of being fucked on the rooftop, the chainlink fence printing diamonds upon his back. Heat, from the midday sun, from their bodies, enveloping them.

Tobirama's still got his shirt on, his tie askew. His hands, upon Madara's ass.

Madara's feet do not touch the ground. His legs are wrapped like vines around Tobirama's waist, his heels upon his back. His arms, around Tobirama's neck. Scent of cigarettes upon his clothes.

Madara inhales, greedily. Black Russian, and beneath that, _Tobirama._ Like corruption. Like power. Like _sin._

Tobirama's cock is a rough, violent thing inside him. Madara feels himself shatter, again and again and again.

  


* * *

  


He wakes with a cry and cum in his pants.

Obito notices the mess and teases him relentlessly. Until they get to class and Madara tries — ineffectually — to shut him up.

Tobirama's gaze upon him. Madara is afraid to meet it. He wants to sink into the floor.

Wants Tobirama to sink into his bones and never leave.

  


* * *

  


The room is quiet. The scritch of pens against paper is unusually loud. Someone yawns. Madara does not care to find out who.

His test lies unanswered upon his desk. He watches Tobirama, seated behind _his_ desk, reading. The white of his hair. Glasses upon his nose. Head resting upon his palm.

Madara pictures himself beneath that desk. Hard floor beneath his knees. Tobirama's cock within his mouth. He wants to know what it would taste like. Wants to feel every inch of his thick shaft. His head in the back of Madara's throat. His masculine scent filling his nostrils.

Madara can feel himself getting hard. He bites his bottom lip, bites back a moan. Heat floods his cheeks.

In that moment, Tobirama looks up. Their gazes meet. Something dark and knowing in Tobirama's eyes.

Madara wants to look away. Does not want to. He cannot look away.

  


* * *

  


Somedays, he lies atop the covers and wills Tobirama to find him.

He imagines the sound of the door opening. The strength of Tobirama's footfalls upon the tile. The mattress dipping beneath his weight. Warmth, from his presence, from his hand in Madara's hair. Against the curve of his cheek, the line of his neck, the length of his body. Down, down, down.

Tobirama's hand, tracing the line of his cock through the flimsy cotton of his pants, caressing him to hardness.

Madara's breaths quicken. He thinks about Tobirama helping him out of his clothes, lowering his head till his mouth ghosts over the tip of his cock. Breath light, teasing, upon him.

Tobirama's lips, closing around him. Hands on his hips, his thighs, bruises all over.

Madara wants so desperately to be marked. He lies there, hard, aching, denying himself the pleasure of his own hand. It is _Tobirama's_ touch he craves. _Needs._ None else would be good enough.

 _Find me,_ he pleads. Reality wars with the fantasy playing in his head.

Tobirama, sucking him off.

Tobirama, who is conspicuously, predictably absent.

Tobirama, working his finger between the cleft of Madara's ass, sliding in.

He comes, without touch, with all his clothes on. The room is dark and silent still, but for the breaths that leave him in harsh sobs.

  


* * *

  


Days pass. They bleed into nights. Into weeks and months.

Madara barely sleeps. He smokes with Tobirama upon the roof.

He returns to his dorm alone.

  


* * *

  


They are lying on the rooftop, sharing music and time. An earbud each, Tobirama's phone between them. They're listening to _Name_ when Madara leans over and kisses him.

Or, he tries to.

Tobirama seems to have anticipated this. It's impossible, but perhaps it's just instinct. His hands are upon Madara's cheeks, stopping him. Madara feels his skin heat beneath his touch.

Tobirama sits up, and his earbud falls out with the movement. He grazes his knuckles down the side of Madara's face. His hands come to rest upon his shoulders. "No," he says. There is no amusement in his eyes.

"I've been legal for three years!" Madara protests, frustration and heartbreak slamming against his ribcage, rising within his throat. He wants to die. He wants it to be by Tobirama's hand.

"You are not," Tobirama says. He gently removes the earbud from Madara's ear. His eyes are hard as they are gentle. "Not yet."

They stare at each other. Wordless. Madara wants to say so many things, but nothing comes out. He is so angry. So hurt. _"Please,"_ he says, and he resents how pathetic he sounds. "I need — " His mouth shuts. He does not know how to finish that sentence. Everything he could possibly say feels so inadequate.

Tobirama's hand upon the crown of his head. It is warm. Gentle. Reassuring. "In time," he says, and that's all there is.

  


* * *

  


Sometimes, Madara thinks it isn't about sex.

He looks at Tobirama and wonders what it'd feel like to be loved by him. Not fucked, not taken apart by hands and teeth and tongue and cock. Simply, honestly, unconditionally _loved._

As he is. As he would become.

Madara wants so much for Tobirama to want _him._

  


* * *

  


Graduation seems like an eternity away. _Twenty_ seems longer still.

Madara steals Tobirama's cigarettes.

Tobirama lets him.

  


* * *

  


There is an ocean between them, even when they sit mere inches apart.

Tobirama is always so far away.

Madara fears he would never catch up.

  


* * *

  


He does not cease to dream.

Always, he lies in bed, waiting, waiting.

Tobirama never shows.

  


* * *

  


And one day, he _does._

It is Christmas Eve and Madara has nowhere to go, no one to be with. Just a lonesome apartment with thin walls and cracked ceilings.

Obito had tried to get him to live in their college dorms. Madara had refused. He does not want to mar the memory of his old dorm with a new one.

He lies on the couch, staring at the mold on the ceiling. He thinks about Tobirama. He is _always_ thinking about Tobirama.

A knock on his door. Sharp. Commanding. Madara answers it and Tobirama is there, older and perfect in his coat, his suit, his dangerous smirk. He hands Madara a silver case. Says, "Happy Birthday."

Madara smiles, this too-bright thing. Heat stirs in his belly, rises to his cheeks.

It's like everything has changed. It's like nothing has.


End file.
